


I Won't Hurt You

by god_commissioned_me



Series: snuggle the jon [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Asexual Character, Childhood Friends, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mary Keay's A+ Parenting, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28079523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_commissioned_me/pseuds/god_commissioned_me
Summary: This is it, his first chance to make a first impression in Bournemouth. He glances over his shoulder to make sure his mum isn’t standing in the doorway before he says, “I’m Gerry.”“Gerry,” the kid repeats. “I’m Jon.”“Why are you at my window?” Gerry asks, because it seems like the most important thing to clear up now that they’ve introduced themselves.Jon and Gerry become best friends in primary school before they’re separated by a move. Years later, a homeless Gerry intervenes between an Oxford student and an assailant. It isn't the first time he's rescued Jon, and it won't be the last time Jon saves him.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: snuggle the jon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057061
Comments: 33
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [Zyka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zykaben) for beta reading!  
> Content Warnings for Chapter One:  
> emotional and brief physical abuse of a child by a parent

Gerry doesn’t like the furniture in his new bedroom. The bed is tall and creaky, and the built-in wardrobe’s doors won’t quite click shut, but there’s room between them to drag his emptied suitcase in front to block anything that might be hiding behind his clothes or the dusty bedskirt from getting out. He checked, though, when he knelt on the floor to hide Dad’s emergency kit where the wall and headboard meet, and he can fit under the bed in a pinch if he needs to. He appreciates that, begrudgingly. He hadn’t fit under his bed in London since the year Mum made Dad leave. Still, he doesn’t like that he has to put his back to the wardrobe when he sits in the chair his mum had dragged up the stairs for his makeshift window ledge desk. He’s sitting here now, looking down at the books Mum had picked up from his new school when she left to buy groceries. At least the glare of the lamp on the window means he can see the rest of the room reflected if he keeps his neck at the right angle. 

He feels a little silly about it. He’s a big kid now and doesn’t even believe in monsters. But it makes him feel a tiny bit safer, like he’s protecting himself in the one way he knows how. It helps distract from the fact that the scariest thing in the house is stomping around the kitchen downstairs, yelling at someone over the phone while she puts away groceries. Gerry wonders if Dad has called again. He thinks he’d been angry when he found out Mum had moved them without saying goodbye. She won’t let Gerry talk to him though, so he can’t be sure. 

Gerry sags in the chair. Then he shoots upright again, squaring his shoulders; he’s going to stop slouching, he remembers now. He’d promised himself on the drive to Bournemouth. The chair is a little too tall to be comfortable at the window ledge, but he supposes he’ll have to get used to it. He’s going to study hard from now on. Maybe if he’s good and gets high marks, his teachers will like him. If they like him, maybe they’ll call him Gerry like his dad had, instead of  _ Gerard  _ like the scary adults always do. 

The teachers in London hadn’t called him Gerry. They hadn’t liked him, but that was because he slouched and his uniform was always dirty and his mum forgot to bring him to class sometimes and screamed at them when they’d asked questions. Now Gerry is a big kid, all of eight years old, and Mum says he can walk himself to school. He’s learned how to use a washing machine too, and there’s even one right here in the new house. He can make an impression all on his own. It’s going to be a good impression. He isn’t going to slouch in the desks. He has all night to practice.

As if to demonstrate to himself, he adjusts his weight on the hard seat and presses his spine into the wooden slats behind him. Then he checks the reflection in the window to make sure the suitcase between the bed and the wardrobe hasn’t moved. 

Then there’s a little flash of movement just where he’s staring and two rapid little knocks. Gerry yelps and jumps to his feet, whirling around to stare at the wardrobe. Something had  _ knocked,  _ something was trying to get out, there was something hidden in the shadows and he’d missed it even though he’d checked twice, and - 

There’s another knock behind him. From the window.

Gerry whips back around in time to see a hand waving through the glass. Now that he isn’t looking at the reflection in the lamp’s glare, he can see movement outside the window. His heart pounds. He hadn’t thought to worry about danger from outdoors, had foolishly thought the walls of his bedroom would protect him. He casts around desperately, looking for something to defend himself with. His new books are sitting on the window ledge, freshly unwrapped. He grabs the heaviest one.

“Excuse me?” says a small, high voice from the other side of the glass. “Are you going to open the window?”

Gerry blinks. 

“It’s just,” the voice continues, “that it’s a bit windy, and I’m not sure how strong this branch actually is?”

It’s not a frightening voice. It sounds like a kid, a nervous but otherwise friendly one at that. Gerry leans just slightly closer to the window, trying to peer past the glare. He’s rewarded with another wave from a tiny figure straddling the branch of the tree between his house and the next. Gerry puts the book down and unlatches the window so he can push it open a crack. “Um… hello?”

The kid in the tree offers him an uncertain smile, though perhaps its wobbliness comes from how altogether unbalanced he appears. “Hi! You’re new here.”

It’s not a question, but Gerry nods to confirm anyway. He feels a bit dazed. He wonders if the kid is going to fall. 

“I live there.” The kid points behind himself, then flinches and grips the branch with both hands again. “There aren’t any other little kids on this street except me. And, well, you now. What’s your name?”

“I’m a big kid,” Gerry says automatically. He pushes the window open a few centimeters further to get a better look at the boy, who looks appreciative rather than annoyed at Gerry’s contrariness. Maybe that’s a good sign. He hesitates, considering how to answer the kid’s question. This is it, his first chance to make a first impression in Bournemouth. He glances over his shoulder to make sure his mum isn’t standing in the doorway before he says, “I’m Gerry.”

“Gerry,” the kid repeats. “I’m Jon.”

“Why are you at my window?” Gerry asks, because it seems like the most important thing to clear up now that they’ve introduced themselves.

He thinks Jon blushes, though it’s hard to tell in the dark. His eyes dart around, not meeting Gerry’s wary gaze. “I wanted to say hello, but my nan said I couldn’t knock on a stranger’s door.”

“So you…?” Gerry blinks. 

“It’s not a door, is it?” Jon says defensively. The wind rustles the leaves of the branch he’s sitting on, and he readjusts his grip. 

“I guess not,” Gerry admits. He shifts and looks over his shoulder again. He doesn’t know the sounds of this new house yet, doesn’t know how to tell if his mum is creeping toward him, and the quickest way to ruin his chances of a good impression is to have her burst in shouting at him or, worse, Jon.

The wind picks up as if in response to his anxious thoughts. Jon lurches a bit and clings harder to the branch. “Oh,” Jon says, “can I come in?”

Gerry looks toward his door one more time. “Um, okay. But you have to be really quiet so my mum doesn’t hear.”

“I can be  _ so  _ quiet,” Jon promises. He scoots down the branch, closer to the window, until he can scramble onto the ledge. He kneels there by Gerry’s books. “Oh!” he says in an exaggerated whisper as he points to the heavy one. Now that Gerry takes the time to look at it, he realizes it’s a maths workbook. “I have this one. Are you Year Three too?” His eyes gleam, but they still don’t quite meet Gerry’s even as Gerry nods. “I’ll bet we’re in the same room. Nan said you might not even go to my school, but I told her you had to! It wouldn’t be fair to finally get a little kid - er, another kid on my street and have you go to another school. Since we’re neighbors, you can sit with me! If, uh, if you want to.” He sounds excited, though he hesitates on the last few words. He brightens immediately when Gerry nods.

No one’s ever wanted to sit with him. Gerry’s mouth feels dry. He can’t mess this up now. He hovers by the ledge, unsure what to do. He’s never had a guest before. Are there rules he should know about?

Jon doesn’t seem to mind his silence. “You got here just in time. We’re starting a project in history this week. We get to make a presentation board! I think we’re supposed to use markers, but I’m going to use watercolors. Nan bought me some for my birthday, but she said they’re too nice to use any old time. Has to be for a special occasion. If you want, you can use mine! Sharing is special. I’m good at sharing.” He hugs himself suddenly, then topples off his knees to sit cross-legged and rub the flat of his hand against one of his socks. It has paw prints on it.

Privately, Gerry thinks that’s a silly thing to have on socks, but he’s not about to say it out loud. He figures he has no room to judge, considering that, “I’ve never used watercolors before.” 

Jon doesn’t look like that’s anything to be ashamed of. He just shrugs and rubs his sock a little harder. “I can show you how.”

That’s a good thing, right? That means Jon wants to see him again. That means it’s working, that he’s making a good impression. Gerry’s chest warms. “Cool.”

Jon wiggles. It seems like a happy wiggle. “I like your room.”

“I don’t,” Gerry says immediately, then winces. Mum hates when he talks back. But Jon hadn’t minded earlier and doesn’t look like he minds now. “It’s… big,” Gerry adds, hoping to tack on a bit of optimism. 

“Big is nice,” Jon says. “Means you have room to play. What do you like to play?”

“Um. I don’t know.” Now Gerry is the one avoiding Jon’s gaze.

“Well, what toys do you have?” Jon persists.

Gerry has to forcibly stop himself from slouching. “I left them in London,” he says. He hadn’t had many to begin with anyway, and the few he’d managed to collect over the years hadn’t fit in his suitcase. He’d liked the Lego blocks Dad gave him for Christmas the last year he’d lived with them, but he’s not sure if big kids are supposed to play with Legos.

“London!” Jon perks up again. “I’m going to live in London one day. Is it nice there?”

“Sometimes, I guess.” Gerry kicks himself inwardly. He wants to be more interesting, wants to prove that he’s worth talking to, worth sharing watercolors with, but all of the scenarios he’s mentally practiced making good impressions in have been at school. He doesn’t know what to do here in his stupid, creaky bedroom.

Jon still doesn’t seem put off, though. “I have a travel book about London. My nan got it at the charity shop last year. I bet you’ve been to lots of the places in it.”

“Probably,” Gerry says helplessly.

Jon smiles. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he’s cut off by a bang from downstairs.

“ _ Dammit _ ,” Gerry’s mum shouts. She lets out a string of other words, but Gerry can’t decipher them through the crash that comes next.

He gulps. Jon looks nervous. 

“Um,” Gerry says, “sorry. But my mum’s having a bad day.” That’s what Dad had always told him when he wanted to make him feel better, back when Dad was still in their family. It makes her sound nicer than she is. “Maybe you should…” He hesitates, not wanting to make Jon feel unwelcome but desperately wanting him to leave so he can turn off the lights and pretend to be asleep before she comes upstairs again.

“Oh! Oh, right.” Jon turns back to the window, which is still hanging open. The branch is close enough to the ledge that he’s able to throw a leg over it while gripping the inside of the window while he adjusts his weight. He makes it look easy, like he’s climbed this tree loads of times. Maybe he has. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

Gerry finds himself smiling. It’s a strange feeling, but not as strange as the elation bubbling in his chest. Jon wouldn’t want to see someone he hated, would he? “Yeah!”

“Cool.” Jon grins back at him and shimmies down the tree. 

Gerry watches him go until the shadows beneath the tree swallow him up. When it’s daylight again, he might practice climbing the tree himself. It’s good to know there’s a getaway from his bedroom that doesn’t require him possibly crossing paths with his mum. Maybe the new house isn’t so bad after all, spooky wardrobe or not. Gerry closes the window and turns off the lamp.

  
  


Gerry likes being tall for his age. He can finally reach all the way across the stovetop to turn it on without dragging over a chair to stand on, which makes his morning routine that much quieter. He measures the oatmeal out one careful spoonful at a time to avoid the noise of pouring it, and he waits the extra few minutes for the water to boil uncovered so he doesn’t have to risk the clatter of a lid. The bowls are a bit harder to take out of the cabinet silently, but he manages as best as he can. His goal every morning is to make breakfast without waking Mum, and he’s gotten better and better over the past year. If he finishes before she leaves her room, he gets to reward himself with a sprinkle of cinnamon in his oatmeal. If he doesn’t, well… it doesn’t really matter what his breakfast tastes like; he scarfs it down and flees the kitchen too quickly for it to matter.

He holds his breath as he ladles the steaming oatmeal into two bowls. One gets covered with a napkin for Mum, and the other gets dashed with cinnamon before he hurries it over to the table in the corner. It has the same, splotchy brown wood stain as the furniture that had come with his bedroom. 

Gerry allows himself to daydream about school as he eats. Meeting Jon the night before has given him another boost of courage. It was surprisingly easy, in the end, to introduce himself as Gerry and not do anything to horrify the other boy, even after his mum had started yelling in the kitchen. How much easier might it be when she isn’t in the same building at all! He feels genuine hopefulness like sunshine in his stomach, like maybe the promises he’d made himself on the drive from London are attainable after all. 

When he’s finished his oatmeal, he rinses the bowl in the sink and scurries upstairs again. He hits some of the squeaky spots and cringes lightly - he needs to learn those, soon. At least Mum’s room is farthest from the stairs, past the bathroom and Gerry’s room both. Small favors. 

There’s not much to be done about showering quietly. He fiddles with the knobs for a minute or two to see if there’s any sort of balance that will make the water run with as little noise as possible, but like the shower in London it works against him, and the best course is just to wash quickly.

He can hear Mum moving in her bedroom as he towels off, and he scampers to his own room before she opens the door. Safely inside, he’s free to get dressed in his new uniform. His ragged backpack looks even worse next to his crisp, clean shirt, but there’s not much to be done about that. Mum won’t buy him a new one. He tries not to look at it in the little mirror inside the wardrobe when he checks the tuck of his shirt.

The clock on his nightstand shows that just over half an hour has passed since he woke up. Plenty of time to walk to the squat school building his mum had pointed out when they drove past. For the first time he can remember, he’s excited to go to class, to introduce himself to new people. He wonders if he’ll see Jon on the way to school. That would be nice, maybe, to have someone to walk with. 

“Gerard!”

Gerry freezes on the spot. His mum’s voice is coming from downstairs, which means she’d walked past his door and gone down the stairs without him hearing. How had she done that? He has a sudden mental image of her picking around squeaky spots he hasn’t even found yet, creeping around the new house with a deftness she’d never bothered with back in London. Why would she try to be quiet? She isn’t the one who has to hide. 

“Gerard,” she shouts again, in the scratchy voice that means she’s swiftly losing patience.

There isn’t time to waste hesitating in his room. The quicker he responds the better off he’ll be, even though his throat closes around his call of, “Yes, Mum?” as he opens his door.

She doesn’t answer, which means she’s waiting for him to show his face. Gerry closes his eyes briefly and hurries down the stairs. Better to be swift, he reminds himself, better this way. 

She’s standing in the living room. There are two heavy trunks lying open on the floor, the only luggage they’d brought from London save their individual suitcases. Gerry doesn’t know what’s inside. She’d packed while he was away; he hadn’t known she was packing at all until the night before they’d left.

“What did you do with it?” she snarls as soon as he enters the room.

“With what?” He lingers as close to the door frame as he thinks he can get away with.

“Don’t play coy,” she says. “I’ve told you it isn’t cute.”

Gerry isn’t trying to be coy or cute. He’s just trying to stay calm and keep his breath under control, but he doesn’t bother telling her that. Getting upset only ever makes it worse; he never knows whether crying will make her angry or give her satisfaction, but neither bode well for him when she’s this wild-eyed.

“My genealogy book. Where is it?”

Oh. Gerry knows what she’s talking about now. It’s a big, hand-bound thing with an engraved leather cover and rough, old pages filled with names and dates from her family history. It had lived in the locked curio cabinet in her bedroom in the old flat, safely behind the glass where no one but she could get to it. She’d brought it out, sometimes, when she was in a better mood than usual, to tell him the stories about her father and his family. Of course she’d have brought it here - it was special, though he was never quite sure why. She never has nice things to say about her father, who’d given it to her. But none of that matters now; he hasn’t seen it, and he tells her so.

Mum’s lips twist into an ugly scowl. “Don’t lie to me, Gerard. You know how important it is to me. What have you done with it?”

“Nothing!” Gerry’s hunching now, and he can’t stop it no matter how hard he tries to straighten his shoulders. “I haven’t seen it since before we left, Mum, honest.”

She moves too quickly for him to dodge, and he doesn’t feel the slap until he’s staggered into the wall from its force. She doesn’t let him fall, though, catching his wrist in a crushing grip before he can go down. He can feel the heat of the same hand blistering on his freshly scrubbed cheek. “You only want to hurt me, you little brat,” she hisses, bending low into his face. “Want to upset me, see me angry, even after all I’ve done for you. You think I won’t give you what you want?”

The weight of the textbooks in Gerry’s backpack makes it hard to keep his balance even with her holding him up. The straps dig into his shoulders and wrinkle his new shirt. Somehow that’s the biggest of his worries, an urgency building in him to appease her, make it stop before the shirt is too creased. “No, Mum, no, I know you will,” he says in as level a voice as he can manage. “I mean - I mean, I wouldn’t do that, I don’t want to hurt you! I didn’t touch your book!”

“You always hated my book,” she accuses, talking over him. “The one thing that brings me joy. You hate it because I care about it, don’t you? Because you want to hurt me, don’t you?”

“I don’t want - ”

“I know what you want,” she spits. She lets go of his wrist and stalks across the room, pacing like a wild cat before the hunt. “What you  _ always  _ want. It’s him. You’ll never be happy with me because you don’t want me.”

Gerry uses his freed hand to grip the strap of his backpack, lifting it slightly to take the weight off his shoulders even as his heart thuds low in his gut. He hates this argument. He knows he can’t win it, can’t convince her that she’s wrong because she’s  _ not _ . He’s never been able to pretend he doesn’t want to be with Dad instead. But he’d never dare touch her things because of it.

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” she says with a sudden scoff. “Because I finally got you far enough away that he’ll stop pestering you. Because we’re finally starting over as our own family. You don’t want that. You’ve never wanted to be part of my family.”

“That’s - that’s not - ” he tries weakly.

“Well, I’ll tell you this, Gerard.” She’s in his face again. Her breath is hot on his forehead. “You can hurt me all you like. You can take my book, destroy my memories, but you’ll never,  _ ever _ , destroy the truth. You  _ are  _ **_my_ ** family. Not his.”

“I didn’t take your book,” he whispers.

“Prove it, then. Go upstairs and show me your things.”

“But - school - ”

“Oh, suddenly you care about  _ school _ ?” The resentment drips from her voice like poison. Gerry thinks he might be sick from it. She snatches his wrist again, hard enough to make him cry out one sharp little syllable, and levers his arm to push him toward the stairs. “You aren’t going anywhere until I’ve got my book back. Stop wasting time and show me where it is.”

Gerry feels like he’s choking on his own breath as she directs him to start emptying the wardrobe. He  _ knows  _ he hasn’t touched the book, but there’s an irrational terror buzzing at the base of his skull that it’s somehow been mixed in with his things anyway. He’s almost as afraid of finding it in his room as he is of  _ not  _ finding it; almost as terrified as he is of her seeing the thing he actually does have hidden in his room. He doesn’t think she’ll stoop to look under his bed herself, but if she does… if she sees Dad’s emergency kit… He shudders and drops another shirt on the floor. He still remembers the bruises he’d had when she found out about Dad’s plans to take him camping last summer. 

“Faster,” she demands from behind him, watching him pull out each item to reveal nothing but the wardrobe’s brown backing. He obeys and tries not to think too hard about the kit or the precious minutes he’s losing.

By the time she’s watched him tear apart his room, leaving nearly all of his worldly possessions scattered on the floor with no genealogy book in sight, his first class period of the day has already started. By the time she’s finished shouting at him while he stands with his back pressed into the window ledge, face turned as far away as she’ll let him, and he’s finally allowed to dash out the front door, he doesn’t think he’ll make it even in time to catch the second one.

He can’t remember his room number, and he runs the whole way to school so there’s no time to check the paper his mum had given him with the books last night. He hopes Jon hasn’t changed his mind about sitting with him. The idea of disappointing him after how happy he’d been about sitting together makes a fresh wave of anxiety spike through his lungs. If Jon is upset with him he’ll have ruined the only good first impression he’s ever made. Maybe Jon will even talk about him behind his back, tell the other kids and the teachers that all his efforts to be good are slapdash coverups of his true self. No, no, no, that can’t happen. Gerry almost trips trying to sprint faster down the final block to the school building.

There are too many doors. The first one he tries is locked, and the second one he sees is behind the tiny fenced-in playground attached to the school’s right side. He’s panting and sweaty, and his new shirt is sticking to his back, when he finally finds one that will let him in. He feels gross. He wants to cry, but there’s no time for that.

As soon as he walks through the door, he’s faced with a frowning woman in a red dress sitting at a little desk in a foyer. 

“Excuse you,” she says. “You’re tardy.”

“Y-yes, I’m… I’m sorry.” He gulps down a breath so hard it hurts his throat, then slips an arm free of his backpack to rummage inside for his schedule. He needs to know where to go from here. 

“Whose class are you meant to be in?” the woman asks. Her voice is raspy and annoyed. The name plate on her desk says  _ Jane Prentiss _ .

“I’m, I’m looking,” he stammers. 

“What’s your name?” she demands, more sharply now.

“G-Gerry Keay,” he says. 

She taps something into the computer at her desk. He tries to look at his schedule again, but the room number printed on the paper means nothing to him. He doesn’t know how to find it.

“Spell your last name,” she commands. He does. She frowns harder. “I don’t see a - oh. Gerard?”

This is the final blow. Gerry can feel gravity yanking on his chin, pulling his head low as he curls in on himself in defeat. So much for being Gerry here. “Yes,” he whispers.

Miss Prentiss looks back up at him with the tiniest touch of sympathy in her eyes. “Late for your first day,” she says.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You can explain it in the head office. It’s too late to interrupt Mr. Rayner this period, so I’ll take you to Dr. Tellison until the next one.” 

Gerry sighs miserably. Bad children get sent to head office. How will he convince anyone he can be  _ good  _ if he starts the day in this much trouble? He shoves his schedule down into his backpack and follows the woman down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [Zyka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zykaben) for the beta!
> 
> Content Warnings for Chapter Two:  
> bullying, specifically a child targeted by peers for being trans and neurodivergent
> 
> It's time for some Jon POV!

Jon is so full of anticipation he can barely control his flapping hands long enough to make his bed. He wiggles in place as he arranges his two stuffed cats against the pillow, the smaller one nestled in front of the bigger, softer one, and practically hops across the room to his chest of drawers. The legs of his trousers are a bit too long on him, pooling over the tops of his shoes, but he doesn’t mind since it means he can hide that his socks have a print on them. Nan doesn’t quite understand why he can’t wear the black ones the uniform required, but they’re horrible and scratchy and he has to fold the cuff to keep them from sagging. The ones from the cat-themed pack Nan bought him for Christmas are soft and don’t slide around. He wears those instead and the teachers almost never notice.

He hears the toaster pop in the kitchen as he opens his bedroom door, and he holds the railing tight so he doesn’t trip as he rushes down the stairs. Nan has already put his strawberry jam on the countertop. He scrambles onto the stool and kicks his feet against its legs while he unscrews the jar.

“Good morning,” he says, even though he knows Nan is too tired at this hour to say much back to him. That’s okay. He can fill the silence on his own. “I’m going to need my watercolors for a project. Can I get them down from the shelf later?”

“For school?” Nan puts the plate with his toast down in front of him.

Jon nods eagerly. “We’re making presentations in history. We have to show what we learned about the Stone Age this month. Everyone else is using markers, but Mr. Rayner said I could use my watercolors as long as they’re bright enough to see from the back of class. I think I’ll use the blue paint. Not the light one, the dark one all the way on the left. Do you think it’ll show up on the poster board? I think it will, but I could use the purple one instead.”

Nan just sighs and says, “You can get them down.”

Jon is focusing on not spilling any of the jam, so he can’t wiggle at that. He wishes the school day would hurry and pass so he could ask Gerry over to look at his watercolors. He wonders what colors Gerry will use. He said he’d never used watercolors before, so maybe he doesn’t know that some of the colors aren’t bright enough to show up from far away. Jon can teach him, though. He likes teaching people about things. And Gerry seemed like a good listener last night. That’s promising. 

Meeting the new kid before school had been imperative. (Jon likes that word. He shapes his mouth around it and feels the air punch out of his lips with each syllable. Im-per-a-tive. He’s going to use it in his presentation, he thinks.) He hadn’t known if Gerry would be in his year, though he’d hoped. He’s always wanted a friend in his class. He wants  _ Gerry _ to be his friend. That was why he’d needed to sneak outside last night to meet him before school. It was his only chance to talk to Gerry without any other kids around.

Some of the kids at school are mean. Not all of them are, but enough. After almost two years here he’s had time to understand the way they treat new students. They  _ pretend  _ they want to be friends, but really they’re only deciding if they do. He’s sure they’ll like Gerry because he’s from London and a big kid. They’ll want to be his friend. They don’t want to be Jon’s friend. They had decided that before his first week had been over. At first he believed them when they said they wanted him to come over and see their toys. But then they found out he’d transferred from the all-girl’s school on the other side of the neighborhood, and they saw him leaving Ms. Montauk’s class for special sessions with Mr. Darvish some afternoons. They don’t let anyone forget that now, even though he doesn’t need special sessions this year and gets to wear the uniform with trousers. They call him names. They call him obnoxious.

Jon  _ isn’t  _ obnoxious. He’s not. That’s why he had to meet Gerry outside of school, so he could show him he wasn’t obnoxious before the other kids told him he was. He’s not good at changing people’s minds once they’ve decided how to feel about him.

But Gerry was nice and said he’d sit with Jon! If they sit together, no one else can tell Gerry not to like Jon. He shoves the last bite of toast into his mouth and hops off the stool. Maybe he’ll wait on the sidewalk for a few minutes before he walks to school, just in case Gerry wants someone to go with him. It’s easy to get to school from here, but it still feels like the nice thing to do. Plus if they walk together Jon can make sure Gerry knows enough about the Stone Age to do the project. 

He lingers in front of his own house for as long as he feels he can get away with, but there is no sign of Gerry. Jon thinks about walking over to knock on his door. Then he throws a guilty look back toward his own house. Technically Gerry isn’t a stranger anymore, so he wouldn’t be disobeying if he did, but he still thinks Nan might be unhappy with him. And she’ll  _ definitely  _ be unhappy if he tears his uniform climbing the tree again. He sighs. Maybe Gerry left early. Maybe his mum had driven him. Jon figures he can ask in class. 

When he gets to his classroom, Gerry isn’t there yet. That’s okay. It just means Jon doesn’t have to risk changing his desk. He always sits in the second row from the front, on the side farthest from the window because Mr. Rayner says Jon gets distracted if he can look outdoors and isn’t allowed to sit by one anymore. No one ever sits with him, but he puts his backpack in the extra space just in case. He’s always wanted to save a seat for someone. It feels important. He wonders if the other students have noticed, if they’re curious about who is going to sit with him. He bounces in place and stares at the door, waiting for Gerry.

Jon feels a little bubble of distress rising in his throat when, several minutes later, Mr. Rayner closes the door and begins speaking to the class before Gerry arrives. Doesn’t he know that there’s a new kid today? What if Jon had it all wrong and Gerry  _ isn’t  _ coming to his school, if they aren’t in the same room? But no, Gerry had all of the same books sitting on his desk. That couldn’t be a coincidence… could it? Jon catches himself picking the corner of his lip as his thoughts spiral and quickly slams his hands down into his lap. 

The more time passes the more confused he feels, though. He can barely concentrate on the timestables they’re supposed to be practicing, and he doesn’t even try to answer any questions during geography even though he usually loves getting up to touch the globe on Mr. Rayner’s desk. He’s fully wallowing in despair when the break before the history period ends and Mr. Rayner starts to hang up his example poster.

Then, suddenly, there’s a quick rap at the door.

Mr. Rayner turns to face Dr. Tellison as she comes inside. Usually Jon gets twitchy any time the head of school is around, but he’s distracted now by the pale kid with messy hair and wide eyes who follows her into the room - Gerry! Jon has to squeeze his hands together to stop himself from flapping them, but he can’t resist craning his neck to try to catch Gerry’s attention. Does he see him? Does he know he’s saved a spot for him?

Dr. Tellison places a hand on Gerry’s shoulder. Gerry flinches under it and looks up at her quickly, but he doesn’t step away. “Mr. Rayner, class, this is Gerard Keay. He’s just moved from London. I’m sure you’ll all make very fast friends.” She murmurs a few more words to Mr. Rayner while Gerry stands there looking uncomfortable under her hand. 

When she leaves, Mr. Rayner says something to the class about being welcoming. Then, “Why don’t you find a seat, Gerard?”

Jon wrinkles his nose. Gerard is a funny name. He likes Gerry better. Then he realizes Gerry is looking around the room hesitantly, and he jerks his backpack off the seat beside him and waves wildly. “Gerry, over here!”

Someone in the back of the room giggles. “You know him?” 

Jon isn’t sure if they’re talking to him or Gerry, but he pays them no mind because Gerry actually smiles when he sees him. He hurries over and slides in beside Jon. “Hi,” Gerry whispers.

“Hi,” Jon says back, and whacks himself lightly on the thighs a few times. It’s working. He’s going to have a friend! 

Gerry spends a minute pulling out his book and one short pencil before he actually glances around the room again. Mr. Rayner has started explaining the presentation project even though he already talked about it yesterday. Jon wonders if it’s for Gerry’s benefit. He wants to tell Mr. Rayner that it’s okay, that he can tell Gerry everything he needs to know about the project and the Stone Age because he actually remembers things about history most of the time, but he doesn’t want Gerry to think he’s a know-it-all. That’s one of the names the other kids call him sometimes, and Nan has used the word too so he’s worried it might be true. He’d rather be subjected to Mr. Rayner repeating himself a million more times before he made Gerry think anything bad about him when their friendship (is it a friendship yet? Jon doesn’t want to call it that too soon, but then again would Gerry sit with someone who wasn’t his friend?) is still so new and uncharted. He has plenty to think about, besides, so he doesn’t feel bored. 

After history is quiet reading time and then reading comprehension questions, so Jon can’t talk to Gerry any more. When Mr. Grifter comes in to escort the class to the music room, he finally gets his chance.

“Do you want to come to my house after school?” he asks breathlessly. He has to walk a little faster than usual to keep up with Gerry. “For the watercolors?”

“You  _ don’t  _ want to go to his house, trust me.” Manuela strides up on the other side of Gerry. Her long ponytail swings primly, and Jon wishes it would smack her in the face just once. 

Gerry’s steps falter. He glances between Manuela and Jon, looking a little lost.

“He’ll just talk to you about boring stuff,” Natalie chimes in, crowding up behind them. 

“That’s rude,” Jon protests. “I don’t talk about boring stuff!”

Manuela rolls her eyes and looks back at Gerry. “Sorry you had to sit with him. He’s so obnoxious. You can sit with us and Callum in music if you want. I’m Manuela.”

“I’m not obnoxious.” Jon twists the hem of his untucked shirt in his fists. He  _ hates  _ that word. “Don’t call me that.”

“Obnoxious,” Natalie says gleefully as she shoves past him to get into the music room.

Gerry hunches his shoulders as if afraid he’ll be shoved too. Jon frowns and looks to see if Mr. Grifter saw.

“Gerard, right?” Manuela says. “Sit with us.” She starts walking to the back row, where all of the meanest kids sit.

“No!” Jon says it a bit more loudly than he’d meant to, earning him a scowl from Mr. Grifter. Of course he’s paying attention  _ now _ . He barely cares, though. He wants to grab Gerry’s arm and pull him to sit with him, but his hands start flapping around helplessly instead. 

Gerry stands frozen for another minute, looking at Jon and then at the group of kids Manuela is walking toward. Jon feels his heart sinking far, far into his stomach. If Gerry sits with them now, they’ll say things that’ll make sure he never wants to play with Jon. It’s not  _ fair,  _ not after all the work Jon did to meet him before anyone else. 

But then Gerry looks back at Jon. “Where do you sit?”

Jon gulps. “O-over here,” he says, and he scampers to his usual corner without looking to see if Gerry is going to follow.

Gerry  _ does _ follow. He sinks down in the seat beside Jon and smooths down the front of his shirt as if afraid it’s come untucked. “Did you mean it?” he asks quietly. “About coming to your house?”

Jon nods so fast it makes his head hurt. “Yes!”

Gerry’s eyes shine. “Okay. Yeah, I’d… I’d like that.”

Jon is glad Mr. Grifter is handing out the recorders now, because he  _ definitely  _ needs to make some happy noises.

  
  


As soon as the final period ends, Jon is shoving his books down into his backpack and squirming impatiently in place while he waits for Gerry to slide out of the desk. Jon is used to being one of the first to shoot out the door, but Gerry is slow and careful and pauses every few seconds to glance around the room. 

Mr. Rayner clears his throat. “Mr. Keay, I’d like a few minutes to get to know each other. Privately,” he adds, looking at Jon.

Jon rolls his eyes. At this rate they’ll never get to use his watercolors. “I’ll wait for you at the fence by the playground,” he tells Gerry.

Gerry murmurs something in response, though he has eyes only for Mr. Rayner. He looks nervous and stiff. Jon tries to offer him an encouraging smile, but he doesn’t think he sees.

Outside, most of the kids are streaming away from the school or climbing into their parents’ cars, though there are a few running around the playground. He doesn’t bother trying to join any of them. They never want him to, and for once it doesn’t matter.

Jon wonders if he should have asked Nan if it was okay to have a friend over. He’s never had an opportunity to ask before. Then again, she won’t be home for at least another two hours. Maybe today he’ll tell Gerry to leave before then, just in case he needs permission. He doesn’t want her to be exasperated with him. (Ex-as-per-at-ed. He’s proud that he knows how to spell this one. He whispers it under his breath a few times until the feeling of it behind his teeth goes away.)

“Waiting for your new friend?”

Jon jerks his head up, startled at the voice that had appeared so close to him. Manuela and her friends are standing on the playground side of the fence. 

“Yes,” Jon says.

“Don’t think we haven’t noticed you hogging him,” Natalie says. “That’s selfish.”

“Yeah. We all want to meet him.” Callum leans against the fence.

“No one’s stopping you,” Jon says, though it’s hard to sound very sure of himself when he has, in fact, been trying to stop them.

“He’s going to sit with us tomorrow,” Manuela says. “And he’s going to play at my house today.”

“What if he doesn’t want to?” Jon asks boldly. “He said he’s coming to my house. He lives closest to me.” 

“Do you have a Nintendo?” she asks. She doesn’t give him time to shake his head before she goes on, “Then he’ll want to come play on mine. No one wants to play animals anymore. That’s for little kids.”

Jon hugs himself tightly. Gerry  _ had _ been pretty insistent that he wasn’t a little kid yesterday. But he isn’t going to ask him to play animals, he’s going to show him his watercolors! “I’m a big kid,” he says, trying to match the way Gerry’s eyebrows had drawn together when he’d said the same thing last night. 

Callum laughs and lets go of the fence to walk around it. The others follow. “You aren’t,” he says. When he gets closer to Jon, he looms over him. He’s had a growth spurt this year. Jon hasn’t. 

“Just go home,” Manuela says. “Gerard isn’t going to be your friend.”

“He is,” Jon insists. 

“I thought you were supposed to be a know-it-all. Why can’t you get it? Nobody wants to be your friend.” Natalie steps closer to him, encouraged by the nodding of the other two. 

Callum laughs, a dry, taunting thing. His shadow blocks out the sun, but that doesn’t make it any easier for Jon to look him in the face. “Maybe you were one of the smart kids in Mr. Darvish’s room, but things are different now. No one  _ cares  _ about your stupid cats or whatever. You better stay away from Gerard.”

“And all of us,” Manuela says, stepping in between the other two. “If you wanted friends, you should’ve stayed in special classes. Or better yet, the girl’s school.”

Her words land heavy in Jon’s gut. He can handle being mocked, being called a know-it-all - compared to this insult, those hurts are nothing. Jon’s vision blurs and he stomps his foot, angry at Manuela and angrier at how she’d made him feel. He tries to shove past them, using his elbows to wedge between Callum and Natalie, but before he can break free there’s a sharp weight against his chest, shoving him downward. His palms catch the ground first, then his bum, jarring his teeth together around a gasping yelp. His hands burn with the shock of gravel against skin. For a moment his vision is shaken, tilted sideways as his tormentors move in close, trapping him against the fence. He tries to scramble to his feet, but there’s a burst of pain from his shin and side alike as they kick out at him, and suddenly just staying upright is almost more than he can handle. “Stop,” he begs. “Stop it, stop it!”

“Stop!”

The new voice cuts through their jeering. They turn as one to face the person who’d shouted, and Jon doesn’t notice he’s rocking desperately in place until he realizes that the pain in his shoulder blades isn’t from being kicked but from connecting hard with the fence at his back. 

“Gerard,” Natalie says.

“Leave him alone!” Gerry says. He’s standing much closer than Jon had realized.

“Whatever,” Callum says. “Come on, Gerard, we’re gonna play on Manuela’s Nintendo. You should come. He won’t bother you anymore.” There’s a mean smugness to his last words.

Jon blinks when the sun shines in his eyes again and doesn’t realize for a few seconds that it’s because Callum has moved away. Gerry is standing with fists clenched at his side where Callum had been. He’s not as tall as the other boy, Jon thinks absently, but he is as tall as the girls. He really is a big kid. He must be, to be able to say something and be listened to by the meanest kids at school. Jon hugs himself and doesn’t even care that his stinging hands hurt worse when he presses them into the fabric of his shirt. How silly he must look, so easily knocked down. He hadn’t wanted Gerry to know, hadn’t wanted him to see how small and unwanted he is, but now it’s too late. He closes his eyes because he’s going to cry if he doesn’t and because he doesn’t want to watch Gerry walk away with them. All this time waiting for a friend to come to his street and he’s lost him after one day. 

“Come on, Gerard,” Manuela is saying. “Leave him.” Her footsteps crunch on the gravel, moving away from Jon like he’s nothing.

“I don’t want to,” Gerry says. “Get out of my way.” There’s a rustle and a thump after those last words, and Jon opens his eyes again in time to see Callum take a staggering half step to one side.

“Don’t shove me,” Callum says loudly.

“It doesn’t feel nice, does it?” Gerry says. He’s standing between Jon and the others now, though Jon hadn’t heard him moving. “Next time I see you pushing someone around, I’m going straight to Dr. Tellison.”

“Nobody likes a snitch,” Natalie mutters.

“Nobody likes a bully,” Gerry snaps back. “Go away.”

And then - they do. They glare at Jon and shuffle their feet and shrug at each other and  _ leave _ . Jon watches, stunned. They’ve never listened to him before. How did Gerry  _ do  _ that?

When Gerry finally turns back to face him, his face is scrunched with worry. “Are you okay?” 

Jon nods quickly. 

“Can you get up?” Gerry hesitates, one hand stretching out as if unsure whether to help Jon to his feet.

Jon nods again and scrambles back up, wincing at the ache in his bum. That’s going to feel sore for the rest of the day. It doesn’t hurt as much as his chest does, though that has nothing to do with how hard he’d hit the ground. How much had Gerry seen before he’d gotten to them? How much had he heard? He swallows. If he knew what school he used to go to… “Gerry?”

“Yeah?”

“You should know, uh, I’m - ” He gulps again and pulls his shoulders up high around his ears. Defensive. “I’m a boy.”

Gerry blinks. “Okay. Cool. You’re, um, you’ve got some blood.” He looks at Jon’s hands, at the little streaks he’d left on his sleeves when he gripped his own elbows.

Oh. Jon stares blankly at his scraped palms. Oh no. “Nan,” he whispers. “She’s going to be mad.”

Something in Gerry’s face flickers, like a bit of sadness mixed with concern. Then he squares his shoulders. “I’ll wash your shirt for you,” he says.

“What?” Jon blinks up at him.

“Yeah,” Gerry says, nodding with more enthusiasm as the idea sets in. “I know how to use a washing machine. I’ll wash your shirt, and clean your hands, and then your nan won’t know! She can’t be mad at you if she doesn’t know.”

Jon’s head feels a bit tingly. “Oh… okay.”

“Come on, then,” Gerry says firmly. “We should get started so the shirt can dry in time.” He sets off down the sidewalk, gripping the straps of his backpack with both hands.

Jon hurries to match his steps. There’s a slight flaw in Gerry’s plan. “Um, my nan gets home at five. The shirt won’t dry by then.”

“Don’t you have a dryer?” Gerry asks. When Jon shakes his head apologetically, Gerry squints. “Come to my house then. We have one, and my mum won’t be back for a long time.”

“But the watercolors,” Jon says sadly. “They’re at my house.”

“Oh. Um. We could… we could look at them tomorrow?” Gerry suddenly looks shy. “I mean, if you want me to come over tomorrow. You don’t have to. You can change your mind. But if you wanted to, I could… um.”

The burst of giddiness that floods Jon’s chest at that makes him forget the pain in his hands. Tomorrow? Spend time with Gerry after school two days in a row? That’s definitely something friends would do, and not something someone who thinks he’s obnoxious would suggest. Jon skips a few paces, too excited for anything as mundane as walking. “Yes! Watercolors tomorrow!” 

Gerry gives him a small, tight smile. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Jon echoes. “Thanks for helping me, Gerry. Nobody’s stopped them before.”

Gerry glances at him again, looking sadder now. “No one ever stops them,” he says quietly, and it sounds like more than just an agreement. “But I would want someone to, if it were me.”

“If it were you, I would try,” Jon promises. He knows already that he would do anything for his new friend.

Gerry only ducks his head and keeps walking, but when Jon looks over at him he thinks he’s still smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KRW97QbuZ6A)  
> This fic is part of a larger No Entities/No Institute au [Savvy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savvycalifragilistic) and I cooked up wherein we give Jon many adoring partners, both queerplatonic and romantic. The man is so small and needs so many snuggles to keep up his strength. Expect nothing but sickening self-indulgence from this series.


End file.
